


Be Always At Your Back

by merelyafigment, visionofblue (merelyafigment)



Category: Oz (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Community: oz_magi, M/M, Prompt Fill, Romantic Soulmates, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-16 13:29:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28707444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merelyafigment/pseuds/merelyafigment, https://archiveofourown.org/users/merelyafigment/pseuds/visionofblue
Summary: In an Emerald City where soulmates exist, Ryan O'Reily speaks in poetry, but Miguel Alvarez responds differently. (Set in early season one. Soulmate AU.)
Relationships: Miguel Alvarez/Ryan O'Reily
Comments: 5
Kudos: 15
Collections: Oz Magi





	Be Always At Your Back

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KH_FF13](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KH_FF13/gifts).



> **Warnings:** Oz was full of bad language, homophobic and racist slurs and attitudes, misogyny, and generally terrible attitudes towards many things really. They were an offensive bunch, and this fic could contain offensive things. There's also always the chance of bad deeds, drug use, etc.
> 
> Deals heavily with the storyline involving the death of Miguel's son, and thus includes a lot of content dealing with the tragic deaths of children, and some self-harm.
> 
>  **Author's Note:** Written for oz_magi 2020, for [KH_FF13](/users/KH_FF13/)'s wonderful prompt.
> 
> Pairing/Character(s): Ryan O'Reily/Miguel Alvarez  
> Keyword/Prompt Phrase: I had to end up in hell to find my other half.  
> Canon/AU/Either: Soulmate AU  
> Special Requests: Please be set in S1
> 
>  **Archiving Note** : the original can be found at oz_magi on dreamwidth. I did some very light editing before archiving here. The most notable change is some handholding where there previously was none.

Miguel Alvarez was settling in to the fact that every fucking day in the Emerald fucking City would start the fucking same. Wake up trapped in stale air, probably clearing his scratchy throat (dying for a cig still, the mornings sucked), scratch his balls swinging free behind standard issue boxers, before swinging his legs onto a cold hard floor out of a damn bunk bed like he was five years old. Take a piss. Scratch his ass. Maybe spit the shit trapped in his throat into the toilet and flush. Brush his teeth staring into the mirror in the dark before the Hacks let there be light. 

The beginnings of the days were already blending indecipherably together, but at least it was better than the hospital ward, which had been his first berth in Oz. In there the entire day, all the days, blended together into one long confusing experience. Pills, moaning assholes, shitty malfunctioning beeping machines always interrupting his sleep, more pills, and taking his vitals and... other than his contemplations of how to snag himself some pharmaceuticals, it had all been a blur of suck. (Occasionally broken up by pudding.) 

Today, though, would be burned into Miguel right after he brushed his teeth. 

It did burn. Fire, arcing across his back. But it wasn't any kind of pain he'd ever felt before. Not like a fucking shank ripping into him, or the sharp slice of a proper blade. Not a fist, bare or gloved up, smashing full force into muscle and bone. Not a hard kick to his ribs. 

This pain? It consumed his skin, down into his blood, rushing through him. But it was like the good burn of booze -- its spreading hurt warmed him, promising the best buzz. 

Then it was gone. 

The pain anyway. For a second, he maybe freaked the fuck out. Internally, you know, couldn't let that shit show on his face. Had to shut it down, turn to stone. But he briefly thought some fucker had gotten him somehow, with some strange new improvised weapon. 

The pain had started on his lower back, after all. His back, his blind spot. 

But he was alone for one thing. 

Maybe those kitchen cocksuckers had poisoned him? 

It maybe took a moment, longer than Miguel wanted to admit, for him to realize the other possibility. 

Nah. 

No fucking way. 

He'd definitely been poisoned or some shit. 

He could still feel it. It didn't hurt anymore. Didn't feel like anything actually on his skin, really. It was more like... eyes on you. A body near you, close. Something you could feel the presence of even when it wasn't actually touching you. 

He turned his back to the mirror, peering over his shoulder. 

Shit. 

Groves may be completely bugs, but no way had he tattooed Miguel while he was sleeping, right? 

Though... the man had learned how. Sort of. That crappy ass 'mom' scrawled on Groves' hand didn't look anything like this. 

Perfect, intricate script. The clean kind of ink you'd have to lay down big bennies for on the outside. Black words, flowing over the small of his back in multiple graceful lines. It was sort of beautiful. The best tattoo to have ever graced his skin, maybe. 

Unless. 

It wasn't a tattoo. 

No. 

Nope. 

No fucking way. 

He'd heard his Moms' story -- and she didn't sugarcoat shit. Her kids didn't get any enchanting romantic fairytales from her. But even with her mouth and her brash take-no-bullshit nature, she hadn't mentioned pain like that. Burning like liquor poured across his skin and lit with a match, fire that lapped inside of him. She'd made it sound like maybe, once you stripped away her bitterness and harsh words, it had like tingled or been something buzzing. 

Never heard his Pop's version. What with him not having a tongue, and not being around Miguel's whole life, and all. 

Nah. No fucking way. 

Groves had like, etched him while he was sleeping or something. 

Miguel knew that wasn't true, even as his half-awake brain wildly scrambled like an alley cat cornered by a pit bull. 

For one thing? Groves was in the fucking Hole again for trying to touch corpses, or putting his fingers in bloody wounds in the hospital ward, or something. 

It couldn't be Groves. 

It couldn't be a tattoo. Not a normal one, anyway. 

It wasn't his fucking mark. 

He hadn't found his fucking soulmate. 

In fucking Oz. 

Nah, man. 

Not in here. 

He knew, though. Felt it like that sensation centered on his back. Felt it with his gut, heart, and cojones, not his flesh and bone. 

His fucking mark. 

His... 

His. 

Maybe. 

He knew a lot of the time it happened right away, like when your eyes first met, or you first spoke to each other, or touched or something. Some sort of mark appeared right then, in the moment. Clearly wasn't the case for him if that's what it was. He'd been alone, sleeping, locked the fuck up. Unless it was a Hack-- 

\--no fucking way was his other half some creepy ass Hack who'd been watching him sleep. 

It wasn't always immediate, though. Sometimes that shit was stubborn. It held out, like it had some mysterious type of timing. This he knew, because his parents had apparently been floating around the same fucking couple of blocks growing up, and it didn't happen until they'd crossed paths a few times. Like it was waiting for just the right moment to make it land properly or something, to tie them together right and tight, with people whose paths were bound to keep crossing. Or maybe the people were stubborn, keeping it at bay. His Moms was sure as shit pretty pragmatic and stubborn. 

Nobody really knew why it sometimes took longer. Why sometimes your mark showed up shortly before you met them, or sometimes a bit after. Symbols or words they spoke. Wasn't science, it was heavenly or the universe or some shit, depending on who was talking about it. The Church went with heavenly. Well, some of the time. Some of the churches. There was the whole chicks with chicks, and dicks with dicks thing that caused some divergence on the subject. Miguel had never considered it seriously enough to form an opinion, really. Being a child of soulmates aside, the whole thing wasn't really a part of his life. 

Maybe it was the Doc? Doctor Nathan? He'd met her in the Ward, since he'd landed there before even making it to his fucking unit. She was good people. Beautiful. Caring. He hadn't really clocked her beyond that. Bit busy dealing with the Welcome To Oz Gold Star Shanking Package he'd received. And then the stuff with his kid. He'd been awkwardly patting a damn baby doll just the other day, wondering about a different future he'd never considered. He kind of had a full plate at the moment. 

He had Maritza. His kid was going to matter and mean something to him. Sure, before he'd shrugged it all off but... Nah. He was going to do this differently. He was going to take responsibility -- actually _be_ a father. Step the fuck up. 

This soulmate thing... 

People like him? 

That had been the important part of his Mother's story -- that soulmate shit wasn't for him. Look how it had turned out for his fucking parents. One behind bars, voice and future gone. Shit, now that conjugals were getting the axe they wouldn't even have that. She'd been happier than anyone when Miguel had blown off thinking about that fated bullshit, and hooked up with Maritza. She was sweet. And why the fuck would he want someone tied to him for _real_ , for keeps, when he knew where his life was probably headed? Nah, sweet girl whose soul wasn't made for his, who wasn't entirely saddled with _his_ soul -- that was good enough. What the fuck would the person who was made for _him_ , who he was made for, even be like anyway? What was _he_ even like, other than another in the line of Alvarez men who didn't even know each other, another guy from his shitty block like all his boys? Yeah, Maritza was good. Good looking, good in bed, good to him. It would be enough. 

This shit was definitely not supposed to happen in here. Honestly, he'd thought once he'd landed in here, and seen his fucking future stretching out before him for two generations, trapped in grey walls... he'd thought that possibility was gone, anyway. Was glad he'd decided to just go with the sweet hot girl, who had his back in a fight, and who was pretty sure she'd never find her soulmate either. 

Miguel twisted his torso, eyes focusing on the reversed words in the mirror, trying to process the backward-ass nature of -- shit, fucking everything. 

What the fuck? 

Did that say something about God holding you and fields? 

No, seriously -- what the fuck? 

... 

God? 

Wasn't the Good Sister. She'd had hers already, according to the always churning Oz rumor mill. Her guy was dead and all, apparently, but she was probably done. 

Was it the priest, maybe? 

The smaller man who was making it his mission to push Miguel. Had a kind of nervous energy every once in a while, but he clearly steeled his spine to work here, sharp edges and judgment flashing in his eyes more often. Stubborn, but in a way that you could tell he was forcing himself to stand up for what he believed. He had said Miguel's soul was his responsibility, hadn't he? Father Mukada... now wouldn't that be fucked up? 

Miguel had only ever chased skirts before. Only gotten hard for tits and pussy. But he'd heard guys talking about that soulmate shit, the way none of that mattered sometimes. Sometimes you got hard as fucking stone for your other half, no matter which way you swung for everyone else. Was just something you had to deal with wrapping your head around. Maybe because they were like your other half or something. The person meant for you. So maybe it was like, your body? It was theirs, and theirs was yours, the one you each got the most sprung for. (Unless sex wasn't your thing, and you just ended up holding hands in matching rocking chairs or whatever. Sex was definitely Miguel's fucking thing, though.) 

This... this would work. Fuck it -- it'd be fine. His parents spent their lives apart. Plenty of his boys and their families never found theirs, or one was locked up, or died. This? This wouldn't have to change anything. If his mother could carry the hell on with her other half locked away, he could be mostly separate from his. Ray had his vows, so he'd settled it all in his head already, probably. Miguel would have 'Ritza, and their baby. 

Wouldn't change dick. 

There was something, though. Something niggling at the back of his mind. An instinct. An unfelt feeling, like the mark. 

Mukada... 

Miguel didn't feel anything when he thought of him. 

It didn't connect. 

Fuck. 

Who else would it fucking be, though? 

Dr. Nathan hadn't spent her time around him talking about God, and he couldn't see her suddenly starting to. For one thing, he was hoping to keep out of the hospital ward. 

Miguel pulled his shirt on as the lights came on, before they stumbled out for count and anyone saw his business. Made sure that was covered even before he tugged on his pants. 

He needed to figure out exactly what it said, maybe. Or ignore it. 

Couldn't ignore it. The strange feeling wouldn't let him. 

Shit. 

Either he'd have to spend some quality time with the mirror above his sink trying to decode those backwards letters, or... 

Sister Reimondo. 

She'd dealt with conjugals, and probably soulmates. Plus, she could keep her mouth shut about certain things. 

He could maybe ask her what it said at least. 

Then she'd probably start prying. 

Shit.

* * *

Miguel was just chilling, ignoring the sensation humming under his skin, centered on his lower back. It was still similar to the feeling of someone watching. 

No one was watching him. 

It wasn't the more familiar sensation of eyes on him. 

It was his fucking mark, and it didn't fucking matter. 

Miguel? Miguel was playing solitaire, trying not to think about how it was like, a metaphor for his fucking life or something. Mark or not, other half or not, he'd probably be playing alone in here. 

And then he heard it. 

Loose and low, spilling out freely. 

Fucking wasted. Half-laughing. 

"...may the sun shine warm upon your face,  
and rain fall soft upon your fields. And until we meet again, may God hold you in the hollow of his hand." 

Ryan. 

O. 

Fucking. 

Reily. 

He knew. Immediately. It was like a sharp pull of everything inside of him. 

Starting on his lower back. 

Spreading, like the echo of the burn. Liquor vapors, or the moment after you exhaled the smoke you'd been holding inside your lungs. 

His lungs. 

His balls. 

His heart. 

His eyes even in a way, drawn to the sound of what he now just fucking _knew_ were the exact words on his back. 

He watched that lanky liquid high-ass white boy stumble right into the lawyer prag. Eyes locked on his. 

He fucking _felt_ it. Something he didn't recognize, having never felt it before. 

Oh, hell no. 

"Oh, hell no." The words ringing through his brain, the only remaining part of him that hadn't gone batshit, came right out of his mouth. 

Miguel was up and moving with the loud scrape of his shitty hard chair on the shitty hard floor. Wrapped his hand around O'Reily's bicep as he passed closely by, and just tugged that tall high Irish motherfucker right along with him. 

O'Reily didn't fight, just fluidly fell right into step with him like that had been his fucking plan. _Now_ someone had their eyes on Miguel, burning into him with intense curiosity. O'Reily had interesting eyes. Honestly? Miguel was used to a lot of brown. That fucking Nazi Schillinger had bright ice blue ones like a fucked up Disney Princess, Miguel had noticed when the man handed him his mail. Didn't think of it again until now, keeping a side-eye on O'Reily while escorting him right into an empty classroom. O'Reily's eyes were different. Harder to pin down, more shifting greyness hiding in their depths. 

They both tucked away near the wall, the closest thing to being not directly in anyone's eye-line. They were also both craning a bit and casting their gazes out, seeing if they'd caused a stir. Didn't look like it. No one was looking in their direction, let alone ambling over to stare at them through the glass. O'Reily spent a lot of time tucking himself away with addicts, bookies, or guys who owed him, so nobody really noted it. Probably just thought one of them was collecting a debt or making a deal. 

Smart. The man was smart, because he was checking right along with Miguel, even when he was fucked up. He'd allowed himself to be dragged into privacy, but nowhere too private, not the dangerous kind. 

When that relative privacy was assured, Miguel could focus his full attention back on the man in front of him, the tug inside of him changing into something else. It was there still, but it was like it had settled somehow. 

He saw tiny words arcing across O'Reily's skin, appearing right in front of their eyes. Right in the sensitive spot between O'Reily's thumb and forefinger, above that small bleeding shamrock, practically curled around the top of it. 

_Oh hell no._

Okay, now that shit? That was pretty fucking funny. So what if Miguel's laughter sounded a bit unhinged, his loose fist held to his mouth to keep it from getting away from him. 

Miguel got some fucking probably-Irish poem about God or something, artistic and fancy on his back like he'd done it on purpose. 

And O'Reily got. That. 

Like he'd been drunk and swearing at his tattoo artist. 

Honestly, though, the man could probably make it work. He did seem to have a sharp mind and a sharper mouth. Swearing on his skin? Right next to his little murder shamrock? It sort of fit. Could maybe even spin it as a threat. _Mess with O'Reily? Oh hell no._ You end up dead, just another little bloody tear on his skin marking your bad luck. 

Miguel... Miguel had started noticing that about O'Reily. Maybe. Maybe he kind of appreciated that about the man. People talked in here, and Miguel listened. That dead wop who'd gotten lit the fuck up? He'd had some beef with O'Reily on the outside. Like, they'd tried to kill each other or something. Guy was charcoal now, and fingers were pointing at the Homeboys. But Miguel? He had a gut feeling. A fucking wiseguy -- they were hard to take out because no one was usually willing to do it. O'Reily was intriguing. Dangerous, possibly, but in a different way than just shanks and bullets. A little fascinating maybe, because he might be uniquely powerful in a way not everybody could manage. 

Miguel was maybe growing a little respect for that, even as he knew to be wary of the other man. Everybody else in here hadn't quite spotted that about O'Reily yet. Miguel had. 

This hadn't even been the man's unit. Miguel had heard that, too. Fucking McManus handpicked the fish in these glass bowls, scooping them up the second they passed through the gates. He didn't usually change his mind and let the ones he'd passed on into his little plastic castle later. 

Somehow? Ryan O'Reily had managed it, finding his way here after being tossed into Gen Pop. 

Miguel knew in that same place in his gut -- it probably wasn't chance. It had probably been the Irishman. His pull or his schemes. Even Carlos had been saying the man got shit done, had a connect and knew how to work things. 

And fuck -- Miguel needed to shut those complimentary thoughts down right the hell now. 

"Fuuck." O'Reily was staring down at his hilarious new tattoo, not seeming to find it all that funny. Didn't actually sound pissed, though. He -- it almost sounded like fucking wonderment or something. Not that Miguel was all that familiar with that particular feeling. Dude was also stoned, though, so it could've just been that. Miguel could see it in his glassy eyes, pupils slightly blown. Smell it on him. Miguel realized his hand was still wrapped around a lean firm bicep, and quickly let go. 

"Yeah, fuck." Was all that made it out of Miguel's mouth. That about summed it up, really. Wasn't laughing anymore. He couldn't quite hold onto the amusement. 

O'Reily's gaze finally left his own hand to land square on Miguel. Miguel couldn't read him, just knew that there _were_ thoughts behind O'Reily's mask, unlike some of the motherfuckers in here. 

"Alvarez, right?" O'Reily pulled his name right out, despite them not really crossing paths yet, like he had everyone in Em City catalogued. There was only a breath and a blink before O'Reily summoned up the rest. "Miguel Alvarez." 

Sure, Miguel knew the Mick's name, too, but that was because Miguel had like, an inquisitive nature. Someone had said that once. (Maybe a teacher? One who'd been trying to get him to shut his mouth and pay attention, probably. He also probably hadn't.) Shit, Miguel knew that old timer Bob Rebadow's name already, too. Plus, O'Reily stood out, alone but not weak. Alvarez should've been just one of El Norte to anyone in here, though. He hadn't been in Em City long enough to carve a mark. 

Miguel gave an acknowledging half-nod. O'Reily was standing pretty close, like personal space be fucking damned. Like they were hermanos or something, and not strangers. 

They weren't strangers, though, Miguel's shocked mind (and his words fresh on O'Reily's skin) reminded him. Well, they were. But that's not all they fucking were. 

O'Reily was still watching him, but his expression shifted a little into something possibly more thoughtful and less evaluating. "You got one, too?" 

"Yep." Miguel confirmed solemnly. Could've lied, but he didn't see the point. All signs pointed to the Mick being resourceful and clever, so it'd probably be a bitch to hide it from him long term. Plus, something... something inside of Miguel didn't feel like bothering to hide it from him. "Showed up this morning. Heard you say it." 

It hadn't really mattered, he realized. Didn't need the words. He fucking felt it. He knew. The words? Those were just like a receipt or something. Solid proof he could point to. Didn't need that receipt though, when he had the item in his hand now. The thing that was his. 

Ryan O'Reily. 

The tall pale lean dark-haired dealer who was the one nodding this time, like he was checking off information. Always watching, though. Staring like he was reading Miguel, reading everything. 

"Ryan O-" 

"I know who you are, man." Miguel cut him off. This motherfucker was introducing himself, like Miguel didn't know his name or something, all while still eyeballing Miguel with that hard to read serious expression. 

That made O'Reily grin, the kind that was basically just a less assholish smirk. Sharp. Maybe pleased, in an arrogant way. 

It was too much. It wasn't like being repeatedly stabbed quick and fast and near the heart while you were just minding your damn business on a bench, but honestly? Miguel had handled that shit better. Even coming out of nowhere, being shanked the second he landed in Oz had made more sense. 

He rubbed his hand over his face with a low exhale, as if anything would help him wrap his fucking head around it. _What the fuck_? 

Soulmate. Miguel had one, it turned out. Not everyone seemed to. A hell of a lot of people didn't wind up with one, actually, in the grand scheme of things. Hard to tell, though. Never could quite know if some people just didn't have one, or theirs was in Alaska while they were sucking down sushi in Japan, or one of 'em got hit by a truck before their paths crossed. 

Miguel? Wandered right into his without even fucking looking. And it was... 

O'Reily. 

In fucking Oz. 

"This shit, man...I find my fucking soulmate? Here? In fucking hell?!" Miguel's mind was spinning out a little, not keeping his thoughts from spilling out of his mouth. "I'm damned for sure, right? That's what this means, doesn't it? God ain't got no use for my ass. Paired us devils together." 

This was where he was always meant to end up, where he belonged, and it was written on his skin. 

O'Reily honestly seemed less annoyed with the situation, and more interested in Miguel's reaction. "First off, pal -- I'm not literally the fucking devil. Good to know my rep precedes me and all--" 

" _A_ devil." Miguel corrected thoughtlessly, letting it sidetrack the shit in his head. 

"What?!" Ryan's voice may have been low, but he pulled quite the face, seemingly annoyed at being thrown off whatever his fucking spiel was going to be. 

"I said we were devils, like demons or some shit. Not like _the fucking Devil_. I thought you were clever and paid attention, baby?" Miguel smirked, feeling a little thrill from briefly having the upperhand, confusing the man whose reputation was indeed spreading pretty fast. (And pretty impressively, too.) It gave him something to focus on that wasn't the chaos and panic in his head. Calmed him down, somehow. 

Couldn't panic here. Especially not now. 

O'Reily didn't stay thrown for long, though, shifting back to an amused curiosity. "Think I'm smart and observant, huh? I guess you're good at noticing shit, too." 

Shit. O'Reily was clearly like, cataloguing what Miguel said carefully, gleaning information from every word. 

"Do you call everyone baby, or am I special?" Well, now O'Reily was just being a dick, returning to laughter hiding in his voice, sparking in his high-as-fuck eyes. 

At least that feeling inside of Miguel had settled the fuck down now that he'd properly met -- now that he _knew._ (Like it had clicked into place, maybe.) Now, he could focus on how fucking insane this was. And how much it wasn't going to fucking happen. 

He was going to be a father. His kid wouldn't be like him, not knowing what the fuck that was. That avoidance bullshit he'd been pulling? It was done. He'd made his decision, and he was fucking in now. 

And O'Reily? He seemed stone cold. Who knew what being his other half even meant to the man. Maybe to him, his other half was just a puppet for him to play with. Another tool to use. 

"Co-ount!" 

No more time to hash this shit out now. Miguel took the out, eager for the first time to get locked down for the night. "I got a girl. I got a kid. This? Nah, man." 

"We're not done here." 

O'Reily's words were behind his back, but he still heard them as he walked away.

* * *

It was a little difficult to avoid a motherfucker you were locked down in a special unit with. Miguel was fully prepared to put in every effort, though. 

He had an ounce of fucking luck on his side for once -- O'Reily? Was probably pretty busy. The man didn't look it, of course. He seemed normal. But all that shit with the mook-killer Keane, O'Reily had to be involved. Miguel knew, in his bones, even if nobody else was entirely sure. He'd probably teamed up with Keane to take his old enemy out, but now Keane was fucking trouble. In trouble, too. The whispers that Keane ordered the hit on the mook were way louder and more persistent than the ones about O'Reily and his old grudge being involved. And then Keane found himself in the gym breaking some biker's neck? Probably the head wop's order. Dumb fucking bikers were probably supposed to kill Keane's ass. 

Now, whether O'Reily was panicking over this development involving his old partner, or if he had a hand in it to tie up loose ends... Miguel would've put his money on the latter. O'Reily did keep slipping into Schibetta's pod to talk to the man, after all. Made sense -- old liability gone, new alliance on its way to being formed. Miguel had no way of knowing for sure, since even the Oz gossip wasn't whispering those words. But Miguel was good at gathering information, and he could piece what he did hear together with what he saw himself. Plus, he had a brain. He could see the possibility, how that would be the smart thing to do if you were floating alone with no boys to be loyal to. 

O'Reily didn't force a confrontation with Miguel over the next couple of days, but Miguel still caught him watching. All the time. That didn't mean all that much usually, because that fucker watched everything. But Miguel knew. 

If Miguel was watching TV? O'Reily was a couple of chairs away, close enough for his smart ass remarks on whatever they were all watching to carry. A table away. Strolling his ass right into Miguel's card game, calling next in checkers. 

O'Reily didn't talk about dick, though. Nothing out of the ordinary, nothing too real. But he talked. And joked. 

And was always fucking nearby, right there along with Miguel in McManus' little experiment. 

It turned out, O'Reily _was_ clever. And funny. Bit of an asshole, really, his humor biting and sharp-edged, cold and objective. But Miguel... well, that was his kind of humor when it wasn't directed at him. Which it wasn't. O'Reily was being not _nice_ exactly, but not a total dick to him. 

O'Reily was nearby a lot over the next couple days, but they were never alone together. Maybe O'Reily knew Miguel would've bowed out of whatever meet he attempted to set up, or maybe O'Reily was just feeling him out or something. Didn't matter yet, since the important part was they weren't talking about the marks on their skin. (It had been three fucking days, and Miguel couldn't shower. Stuck taking fucking whores' baths at his sink when the lights were out. He'd have to eventually, and his tattoo was fucking obvious as all hell.) 

The thing was, Miguel felt it now. The empty space. The missing part. He hadn't noticed it before, not really. Sure, he'd always felt a little alone his whole life, trying to fit somewhere -- but not that bad. Not like this. Now he could _feel_ it. A tugging hollow. 

Thankfully, it got a little easier to turn his mind from it when he'd been rushed out of Oz for the birth, too focused to even notice the air and the sky. Had to get to Maritza. To his kid. 

Watching that? Seeing his boy's small face and blinking eyes. Feeling impossibly tiny fingers wrap around one of his for just a second, before he was whisked away behind stone again? He wasn't thinking about anything else. He could lose himself in his boy filling up his heart. His kid, the little picture he could show to everyone, of his handsome little miracle. 

He'd shown _every-fucking-one_ , too. O'Reily had unsurprisingly appeared when Miguel was showing someone else, and it's not like he could yank the picture away and tell the man to fuck off with an audience. Miguel had focused on the picture of his kid, and O'Reily had actually looked at it. Said something somewhat appropriate, and not been an asshole. All while carefully watching Miguel when their company wouldn't notice. Miguel hadn't been able to read him then either. 

Then Miguel had gotten the call. 

Had been focused on his boy then, too, but it was the complete opposite of his former wonder and joy this time. Desperate and angry, lower than he'd ever felt. Not being whisked anywhere, just stuck with the knowledge that his boy was stuck too, and struggling away from him. Didn't have time or energy, or space in heart or mind, for anything but his boy. 

He didn't even have a name yet. 

Before he'd landed in Oz, Miguel hadn't bothered thinking about it, since having no connection to his own father didn't make it seem like a big deal. Then Father Ray had made him want to forge that connection for himself, made him care. Miguel had been going back and forth since. Wanting to claim his son for real, show his pride by giving him Miguel's own first name, or maybe his grandfather the legend's name. But then. He'd think about who he was. Who they all were, and where they were, and he'd think maybe they should just name him after someone in 'Ritza's family. Or give their boy a new start with a brand new name. Also, it wasn't like they had a chance to talk it over on the phone. Maritza was still in the hospital, and he was in here. 

She only got to call him because of the news. The worst news he'd ever gotten, and it's not like his life hadn't already been filled with his fair share of shitty news.

* * *

If he'd thought he could fix it with pain, blood, remorse, and offerings, he must've really been bugs. As if anything he had to give, anything he could ever do, would ever be enough 

That night, holding the blade and staring into his own eyes, all he would've had to do was turn around in that mirror and look at the beautiful treacherous words on his skin to know that. 

God, the universe, whatever, had some plans for him all right. But they didn't include listening to a damn thing he had to say. 

He'd tried anyway, with everything he had. 

The only penance he could think of. 

The only plea.

* * *

It wasn't enough. 

Yeah, he'd definitely been bugs to think so. Just like everyone thought he was now. 

But he'd thought -- he was on the radar, right? Got a fucking soulmate and everything. Maybe God would listen. 

He'd let himself hope. Wrapped himself in it, like the bandages now on his hands and face. A stab for each of his vicious reckless hands, an echo of stigmata. His face, sliced right through it, because fuck it -- that's not what he loved the most. 

His baby boy. That's who he loved. 

Didn't work, and yeah, now even Mukada was giving him the side-eye, and he'd have to talk to somebody and convince them he wasn't crazy. Did he even want to bother? 

No one even noticed his angry wailing for his baby as the priest left. 

It had tired him out. 

Left him hollow all over again. 

He fucking felt it scraping and echoing inside of him, worse than ever. 

After his throat was raw, and his wounds ached -- his hands from gesturing and rending sheets, and his face from opening wide to yell out things nobody listened to -- he closed his eyes. 

Black. 

Black and empty. 

His boy was somewhere like this. Another hospital. Another place Miguel could never reach. 

He didn't dream of anything but black, staring into nothing. 

When he opened his eyes for real again, into the bright fluorescence that drowned out the weak caged sun behind him, he wasn't alone. 

He felt the phantom itch of his lower back. Wasn't real, was just like his back being bare and pressed against the rough shitty sheets where his hospital gown had pulled open with his movements. 

Ryan O'Reily, watching him. 

He didn't have that sharp dangerous look he usually did. Sure, he still looked like a cunning bastard who was taking in every inch of his surroundings, but he looked -- 

"How the fuck did you even get in here?" Miguel cut off even his own thoughts, too tired to figure out what that look was, beyond not seeming to hold anything deadly, for the more pressing questions. "This ain't General Hospital. We don't get visiting hours." Miguel had known O'Reily could move. Get shit done. Miguel still liked it. Still wanted to know more. He didn't have the energy to really ask today, though. "You know what, never mind. Why are you here?" 

"Maybe I _am_ visiting." O'Reily sounded just as casual, just as unreadable, as his expression. 

But Miguel knew anyway, as O'Reily moved right next to the end of his hospital bed, hand coming to rest idly on the footboard he cocked his hip into, leaning against it just a fraction. Facing Miguel. Here for Miguel. 

"I don't see fucking flowers and balloons." Miguel gestured lazily with one fucking mummy hand, falling into mild taunting because it was easy. Autopilot. He was too drained for it to sound anything like _back off_. That fucking hollow feeling, all his feelings, had quieted down a little when he'd opened his eyes and not been alone. And right now he couldn't fight that fact, any more than he could fight what was going on in another hospital he couldn't reach no matter how much of himself he cut away. 

Ryan's small answering smirk was maybe more of a grin. "You want _flowers_?" 

"I prefer lollipops and tits." Miguel replied with a flash of remembered ease, his smirk feeling more playful than it should, too, as it stiffly shifted his bandages. Nah, couldn't fight any of it, Miguel realized with an exhale, turning more serious. "Just say your piece, man." 

Ryan indicated Miguel's injuries with a casual nod of his head, eyes narrowing a little. More watchful and maybe more dangerous. "Did you really do that? You sure it wasn't that fucking cannibal you're locked in with?" Something about the way he said it... 

Miguel pictured charcoal. 

More dangerous, yeah, but not aimed at him. 

"Please." Miguel shot him a look at that ridiculous thought, scoffing. "He ain't touching me. He'd be in here, not me. 

Groves wasn't bad to be locked up with, really, and Miguel didn't want to get the guy's ass lit on fire. For one thing, then he'd have to deal with a whole new asshole bunking above him. 

"Fucking _why_?" O'Reily's sudden agitation must've meant he was genuinely confused. He leaned closer, his words coming out with more of a hiss, hand slipping down to Miguel's mattress. Miguel could feel the slightest dip of it right by his ankle. Maybe O'Reily was just pissed off because he didn't understand. 

"You hear about my kid?" Miguel's question was another slow exhale, as he settled heavily back into a sitting position. He didn't want to tell the story again. And he wanted to know how much O'Reily heard, to see how well he worked the rumors in here, maybe. 

"Yeah, I heard he was sick. He's not doing good." The look in his eyes, how low his voice got, made Ryan sound serious enough for it to possibly be true concern. 

Miguel shrugged, wondering what was going on with his son, if the machines were even... 

...the bed dipped under more weight, as Ryan just sat his ass down beside Miguel's leg, still facing him and the head of the bed, the side of his hip and ass brushing against Miguel. 

"I thought... I thought maybe I was being punished, you know?" Miguel wasn't looking at O'Reily's interesting eyes, the shock of seeing what may have been real sympathy in them turning his gaze towards his bandaged hands instead.

"By who!?" The whole bed shifted a little with Ryan's returned vehemence. It pulled Miguel's gaze back to him as Ryan leaned forward again, kept getting closer. And more pissed off with his seeming ignorance. 

"God, pendejo. Who else?" Miguel threw out, because that shit was obvious. He'd confessed already, to Father Ray, and it hadn't done dick. Yet here he was doing it again, explaining himself to a perplexed and pissed off Irishman. Miguel saw it when he looked back down at his lap again -- Ryan's hand braced on the bed. Miguel's words curled around his bleeding shamrock. "I thought I was the shit, you know? Didn't mind telling everybody. I was too proud, too fucking loud about it. I thought... nothing could touch me." He ran a bandaged hand over the sheets on his bed's empty side, watching it catch roughly. "Pissed him off, maybe. I needed to do penance. Show him... he needed a piece of me. I tried to give it to him." 

"Bullshit." Ryan's automatic response, so steady and sure, pulled Miguel's eyes right back to him. Again. 

"Fuck you, you asked." Miguel didn't look away from O'Reily this time. 

"You aren't being punished." O'Reily didn't back down, but his bitterness didn't feel like it was directed at Miguel, either. "God is just a dick. It's all bullshit, anyway. I've been told the same fucking thing -- punished for being bad, just for being fucking alive and being me? Fuck that." 

Ryan's hand. On his leg, as the man kept leaning over him a little. Not too close, not enough to draw notice. There was still plenty of air between them, with O'Reily still down by his legs and all. They could be settling debts or making deals if anyone saw them. But it was like... O'Reily really wanted him to believe it, to understand what he was saying. 

It also really seemed like that angry darkness of his on the subject had a deep root. Maybe Miguel could recognize pain better at the moment, or something. 

"Yeah, well..." Miguel shrugged again, letting things cool down with his reluctant acceptance. Shit was what it was. Ryan's hand left him, but the man didn't yet. "Didn't work." 

"No shit." Ryan scoffed mildly. 

So much for cooling shit down. Miguel let his own anger out, just a little. "Hey, fuck you, asshole. That's my boy. I love him with all my heart. Even if it seems crazy to everybody who ain't involved -- I had to fucking try." Soulmate or not -- and maybe it _was_ all bullshit, and that tugging hollow feeling was wrong or a sick joke, because if this bastard couldn't understand-- 

"Not everyone would." Quiet and a bit unreadable again, surprisingly it was like O'Reily took no offense. O'Reily let it roll off of him, his head tilted slightly with that watchfulness of his. Like he was learning something. 

Something he seemed okay with. 

Miguel stayed firm. "Well, _I_ fucking would." 

"I see that." O'Reily saw things, all right, taking one more moment before removing his weight, standing up, and stepping back. "You done there, mummy boy? Or should I be worried about more penance?" 

Miguel's bitter snort came out without thought. "Why the fuck would _you_ be worried?" 

But the words sounded strange coming out of his own mouth, because fuck -- it seemed like O'Reily was. Miguel had to sit with the fact that he didn't feel as alone. Even when they definitely weren't seeing shit eye to eye. O'Reily just kept watching and listening. 

_What the fuck?_

O'Reily was also apparently waiting for an actual answer, the weight of his gaze just as much of a presence as his body had been settling on Miguel's bed. 

"I'm done." Miguel's head fell back with a different kind of weight, eyes closing with the admission. "It's done. Gave all I had. Wasn't enough." 

O'Reily didn't say anything, and Miguel couldn't help but look up when the sudden silence finally turned into the sound of movement. O'Reily was walking away. 

"I'm real sorry, Miguel." 

Those were the quietest words he'd spoken, his back to Miguel as he left. The words themselves may have been casual, but the tone wasn't. 

The sentiment was real. 

In a place like this? 

That was almost a miracle of its own.

* * *

"You got lollipops." 

Groves' voice. Right next to Miguel's head when he squinted awake, sore and drained the next day. Still wondering about his boy. He hadn't heard anything else. He'd had to talk to some jizzbag who wasn't Sister Pete, and who hadn't listened. Hadn't seemed to care enough to declare him bugs and send him to the psych unit either, though. 

It's a good thing Miguel was used to Groves just popping up next to him, talking like he'd been waiting for Miguel to wake up. Miguel didn't startle at all, stretching and scratching with his annoyingly wrapped hands. 

The surprising thing was the lollipops. On his breakfast tray, under his always rock hard toast. Groves was holding up his toast to show him, maybe, but the little white sticks poking out awkwardly were kind of a dead giveaway. 

_I prefer lollipops and tits._

Oh for fuck's -- there had better not be a little baggie or vial of heroin hidden in his shitty dehydrated scrambled eggs. 

O'Reily was the bugs one. Definitely. 

The weird hint of warmth he felt on the skin of his lower back probably wasn't real. That sensation really was just in his head. 

But this. 

The lollipops were real. 

The listening. 

The concern. 

Real and _his_. 

Well... unless they were poisoned. O'Reily seemed like the type to work that way. 

But. Nah. Fuck, Miguel felt it. 

They probably weren't. Oh well, if he was wrong he would just be dead. He was already in the fucking hospital ward for the second time since he'd gotten here. 

And if he wasn't wrong... 

That was something even more rare again. 

Something good. Impossible. (Miracle.)

* * *

Alone. 

They'd just released Miguel back into McManus' little kingdom, like it was nothing. 

He'd watched his boy dying in front of him, with the beautiful sweet girl (who wasn't destined for him or any of it apparently) breaking down in tears in front of him, with a priest who wasn't made for him either beside him ushering his baby into God's arms. 

God's fucking arms, yeah right. Was He there? What kind of asshole could watch that -- someone so tiny and pure and beautiful, but so fucking frail and in pain, taking their last breaths -- and not want to cry? To stop it? 

When it was over, they'd just taken Miguel's shackled ass right out. 

Back on the bus. 

Back to barbed-wire, stone, and cold hearts. All of them. Cold. 

And now he was just back in a unit with a dumb fucking name and glass walls, like nothing had happened. Carlos had hit him firm on the back, the consolation of a thumping fist, before his guys had left him alone, too, to hunker down in his bunk. 

He didn't go to chow. 

Lunch? It was lunch, yeah. 

He turned things over in his mind, and breathed. His boy... Miguel got it now, what Father Ray had been saying, after seeing him again. How different he looked in such a short time. That had been pain and cruelty. His boy had deserved peace. 

He skipped dinner, too. 

Because it wasn't normal, today. 

It wasn't just nothing, and he would at least mark it as something. 

But. 

It was what it was. 

Miguel's whole life was like that, the boy with every man who came before him behind bars. With guys he grew up with dead. That's just the way things went sometimes, with shit fucking sucking and good things being destroyed. 

Father Ray came, and he wasn't alone for a moment. Miguel could say some of the shit he'd been thinking out loud, about everything he knew about himself now. 

Sure, his heart was ripped out. But. Had Miguel ever really felt his heart before this? 

Now he knew. 

He did. And he knew what was within him, what he was capable of feeling, of being. 

After the good Father left (without having said much of anything, and whose few words weren't very consoling, honestly), Miguel felt the sudden need to get out of his pod before he got locked down there for the long night. 

He wanted to be even more alone, maybe. Really alone, and not observed behind a glass wall for a second. There were a lot of guys around the televisions, soaking up their last bit of entertainment before it was time to sit and stare at your podmate. He spotted Rebadow and Said in the quad. Didn't see the prag. Ah well, two out of three, there were worse odds in Oz. Those were the fuckers Miguel guessed most likely to be in the library. 

Turned out, he was an excellent fucking guesser. The library was empty, with even the Hack staying outside the door since there were more motherfuckers out there in his eye-line than there would be with Miguel alone in the currently librarian-free room. 

He should probably like, sit and pretend to read or something. But running his hand over a row of books on a shelf along the wall just brought to mind how he'd seen some books in the kid's visiting room when they'd let him practice with the doll, and how he'd thought of reading to -- Miguel had never been read to, you know? His Moms had her hands full keeping them fed and clothed. Keeping them under a roof had taken up all her time. 

Fuck. 

His back hit the wall at the end of the shelf, just to feel it. And he slid down with his exhalation, ass hitting the floor and knees pulling up, because he felt like being low. He hung his arms straight out over his knees, only really realizing his head was bowed and he wasn't looking anywhere but at the darkness behind his lids when the sound of the door opening pulled his head up. 

Not the Hack. 

O'Reily. The entrance was across the room, but O'Reily's long gait could cover it fast, bringing him closer. 

"Miguel." 

Soft. O'Reily used his first fucking name again, and he said it so quietly, so lacking in venom and sneer, that it was _soft._

"You don't call me that. We ain't friends." Miguel was not feeling soft. He was fucking broken. Sliced open, and he'd done it himself. All his fault. 

Or maybe he just didn't want to be alone with O'Reily, the owner of the words on his skin. 

Because he felt... fuck. It made him focus a little on what he felt when O'Reily was around. Less empty and cold. Even now, when it felt like a piece of his heart, his flesh, his very fucking soul, had been ripped away forever. 

"No, we're not." O'Reily agreed, still speaking lowly and sounding nothing like he usually did. But his watchful eyes turned sharp, as his voice got a little harder. "You know what we are." 

"Fuck off with that shit." Miguel's voice may be low too, but his was a shank to the gut, practically spitting with the words forcing themselves out. Before it all left him with a ragged sigh rattling down to his bones, all he had left. "Not today." 

"Sorry, pal, but I've got something to say." There was O'Reily -- shitty and sharp and not giving a fuck. Sat down right in front of Miguel on the floor, without being invited. Wouldn't be ignored when he actually _wanted_ to be seen, instead of his usual lurking around the edges observing everything. 

"You always got something to say. It's always bullshit." Miguel's eyes closed with the weariness overtaking him. He could do that around Rya-- O'Reily. Man wasn't a fighter as far as Miguel could tell. Deadly, sure. But the type you could close your eyes around, because he worked from a distance. Didn't matter if your eyes were open or closed. 

He heard O'Reily's humorless chuckle, and it was sort of soft, too. Also weary, maybe. "Not this. This shit? I can only tell you. Only today." 

Miguel had to open his eyes again to glare, to carry his point across. "Don't-- I don't want to hear any of this fated, other half bull--" 

O'Reily just cut him off and carried on, eyes locked on his like he was sincere or something. "You saw him for the last time today, right? Watched him... _that's_ fucking hell, man. I _know._ " 

Miguel hardened even further, spitting out his refusal to buy O'Reily's sympathetic bullshit, because-- "No. You fucking don't." 

A steeliness that matched his own stared right back at him. "Yes. I do." 

Miguel didn't need this shit today-- 

"I watched my baby sister die, you know?" 

Everything inside of Miguel stopped -- the words about to fall angrily from his tongue, his bitterness. Everything was halted by Ryan's statement. 

That hadn't been bullshit. That was real, Miguel could see it. See it clearly, in the ragged edges Ryan suddenly showed, his usual mask fallen away. The little shake, the tiniest crack in his voice. 

"Shit. I'm sorry, man." Miguel knew he sounded a little stunned, but it wasn't just something meaningless he was saying. He wasn't a polite guy, especially not today. He meant it, as much as Ryan had meant it in the Ward. "Guess you do know. It -- fuck -- 'm sorry you know this shit. Shouldn't have to. They're so innocent, you know. Fragile, and how can -- it fucking sucks." 

That was probably the understatement of the fucking century, but Miguel didn't have the words for this. He couldn't bother trying to find them today. They'd all fall short. He actually hoped O'Reily could tell what he meant anyway, that Miguel wasn't blowing him off. Not with this. So he kept his gaze steady, locked on Ryan's and tried to let it show. 

Maybe they weren't alone. 

Ryan didn't look settled, though. He looked... that was what something breaking looked like. Miguel knew because Ryan sort of looked like he felt. 

Then Ryan kept talking to fill the heavy silence among the books, and it seemed like the words fucking hurt leaving him. 

"They said it was an accident, you know?" Ryan maybe wasn't looking at him anymore, not really. The man was lost inside of himself, despite still facing Miguel. Miguel understood that, too. Ryan was all shake now, long legs pulled up, arms wrapping around his knees. Ryan's movement was fluid, because it sort of seemed like Ryan always moved that way. But his hands? They gripped each other tight, all red and white from strain, clenched against his legs. And they shook. So did his gaze, eyes looking wet. Not crying, but like that last step on the edge of it before you fell off and started sobbing over how much life sucked. Miguel had a feeling him and Ryan were both the type to fight to keep from going over that edge. "It wasn't." 

Shit. 

Miguel leaned forward, wanting -- fuck, he didn't know what to do, shocked by the horror of what Ryan seemed to be saying. He scraped more words out of his throat, just wanting to be there for O'Reily more than he wanted to know the answer for once. "You saw it? Jesus fucking -- who?! Who the fuck would--" 

The noise that left Ryan sounded like choking, like he was going to fall right off that fucking edge. Miguel found his hand reaching out, settling right below those clenching hands on Ryan's leg. 

Maybe a tear actually did fall, but this wasn't the fucking movies with one perfectly defined drop. Ryan's eyes just looked damp, instead. And full of fucking pain Miguel could feel echoing inside of him, in places where he didn't feel empty now. 

"My Pops, he --FUCK." It wasn't loud. It was so low and dark it must've broken inside of Ryan, too. "He fucking shook her life right out of her in front of me." 

He'd had to watch that? A little girl? Miguel had just fucking seen how painfully fragile and small a kid could be, he couldn't even imagine -- Miguel couldn't stop the clench of his hand, right below the knots Ryan was making of his own. Miguel's fingers maybe dug into the heavy cloth of Ryan's pants, as he stayed leaning forward enough to touch. "Evil soulless motherfucker." The thoughtless, breathless curse wasn't directed at Ryan. Miguel sure as shit didn't have words for this either, but darkness poured roughly out of his mouth anyway. "Damn that motherfucker to fucking hell." 

He just held on. To Ryan's fucking leg. Which did nothing, meant nothing really, but he didn't know what else to do. He may have inched closer, shoes knocking into Ryan's boots a little. Miguel's gaze landed on where Ryan's hands were still clenched tightly, practically vibrating with it. Miguel's touch followed unthinkingly, letting go of fabric, finding skin under the pads of his fingers. It happened quickly, Ryan suddenly trapping his hand, fingers wrapping around him. Tight, solid grip, but not painful like the man seemed to have been gripping himself. Like Ryan's other hand still was, curled around and digging into his own knee. Miguel didn't pull back, just holding on. Letting Ryan hold on, to him. The moment stretched, Ryan's eyes closing as he choked back whatever shit was raging inside of him. Miguel stayed still until Ryan let him go and they both pulled back, fingers brushing Miguel's again with the movement, as Ryan's ragged breathing settled. 

"You would've been a good father. Not like that motherfucker." Green eyes...blue? Grey? Sharp, but full of emotion and that tremor. And right there with Miguel again, not lost within. "Slicing up your face may have been fucking insane, but you were willing to do anything for your kid. I mean, it was completely fucking stupid and not an actual plan, but." Ryan shrugged, like he was trying to pull himself back from the darkness with the weak insults. They packed no punch. Ryan's voice still held his confession. 

Ryan wasn't using him. Wasn't playing him. 

He was trying to be there for him. With him. 

To connect. (Needed him there.) 

Miguel had thought he was already broken. But no. Now he felt everything inside of him shatter. 

Because O'Reily was wrong. 

And Ryan's surprising soul baring confession ripped the bitter truth right out of Miguel. That's what it felt like anyway, something broken shredding his throat, his voice, sudden humorless laughter a harsh bark that quickly faded into nothing. Miguel didn't deserve that confession, this company sitting with him, holding on to him, without Ryan knowing Miguel's whole story. 

"I'm the same." Miguel admitted, the words still broken glass dragging through him. "My kid? He died because of me. I'm as shitty a father as yours, O'Reily." 

Wasn't he? Was he a fucking monster like Pops O'Reily apparently was? Miguel hadn't -- temper or not, he'd never have done that. He'd never raised a hand to Maritza, or anyone he cared about. No, he wouldn't have done that to his kid. He'd have died first. But. He was here, and his boy wasn't, because of shit he'd thoughtlessly, recklessly done because he thought nothing bad would happen. 

Ryan merely watched and waited, like he always seemed to, for the whole story. 

He'd told this to Father Ray, too, but O'Reily should know exactly who he was offering his shockingly rare sympathy to. "He was messed up 'cause of me. His liver was bad because of me. All the fucking drugs -- I kept us doing 'em, even though Maritza wanted us to stop." Miguel closed his eyes to return to the darkness, letting his head fall back against the wall. Hard. Like the truth. That physical pain didn't mean anything to him at the moment. The dull crack to the back of his skull was practically a kiss, compared to what was in his heart. His soul. He should feel the pain, you know? He didn't feel it enough in his body, his flesh, only in his newly felt heart and soul. He should feel it. He thudded his head back against the wall again. It should rip through him like a shank. He clenched one wounded hand tightly, felt the sharp stab. Maybe he could rip the stitches if he clenched it hard enough. He should be in physical pain, because this pain in only his mind was too much to handle. "Go away, O'Reily. Should damn me, too. I'm a devil, and _this_ is hell." 

He'd thought nothing could touch him... and he'd done whatever the fuck he'd wanted, because he could. 

He'd thought nothing could touch O'Reily, either, now that he thought about it. 

_I watched my baby sister die._

He'd seen Ryan O'Reily's cracks. 

His pain. 

Miguel stopped hiding and opened his eyes. 

Ryan's eyes were closed with his neck craned back a little to tilt his unseeing face up more towards the ceiling, almost mirroring Miguel from a second ago, even though Ryan didn't have a wall at his back. Miguel's mirror. Backwards and confusing. 

"No, you're wrong. You fucked up, sure -- shit, I've fucked up and somebody that mattered got hurt because of it. But we're not the same as that old bastard. Trust me. I might not have known your loco ass long, but you are very different than my father." When Ryan spoke, his tone of confession and connection hadn't changed. He hadn't gone anywhere. His weary sigh was right there with Miguel still, even as his eyes stayed closed. Maybe he was holding back those tears. "Fuck. I was never going to tell anyone that shit." 

But he'd spilled it to Miguel, and stayed right there. Even with all the truth offered between them, painful and ugly, they still weren't alone. Miguel felt even less alone, really, with Ryan's refusal to truly blame Miguel for what had happened. Ryan didn't think Miguel was a monster, and the guy knew from fucking monsters, it seemed. 

"He in here? I could kill him if you want. Easy." Miguel meant it. He knew he did, the second the words left his mouth. 

He could do it. 

For a dead little girl, and the shake in Ryan's hands. The tears that they couldn't let fall. For the lack of anything he'd been able to do to save his own boy. This? He could do. 

Ryan, whose eyes popped open and tore right through him, sharper than ever. O'Reily wasn't shaking now. He was moving, smooth and unwavering. Closed the distance between them like it was nothing. 

And Miguel let him. 

Ryan's mouth met his, as hard and sure as the eyes Miguel could no longer see when his own closed with it. It hurt. More good pain, tugging at the still bandaged wound on his face. But Ryan was being careful not to grab that side of his face, not to touch near there. Like he didn't _want_ to hurt Miguel -- thinner lips. Chapped. Strong and unrelenting, right up until something in the kiss broke, too. 

The closed-mouthed kiss became soft and clinging. Then there was the quietest huff of laughter, licking at his lips like Ryan's devil tongue. Miguel let him in. Just for a moment. For a taste. That burn humming through him. Warm, like liquor down your throat. Miguel bit down lightly on the tip of Ryan's sure tongue, making the man shake again. Miguel followed it with a suck as quick as his bite had been, bringing a groan out of Ryan and into his mouth before Miguel pulled back, head thudding against the wall again. 

Eyes open this time, staring into grey-green. 

Right now, this close, they looked like what Miguel imagined a break in a storm over the sea looked like. 

Staring right back. 

Still full of certainty, maybe now more than ever, Ryan spoke. "You're my fucking devil. And I'm yours." 

And Miguel fucking felt it. 

One unbroken thing. 

In hell. 

His. 

His other half. 

Hard and soft. Sharp and clinging. Deadly and shaking. Laughing into his mouth because Miguel was deadly, too. Loco and broken. Lost and... 

... not alone. 

For once. 

For real. 

"Come here." It felt like it came from so deep inside his chest that it rumbled out. 

Ryan hadn't really gone anywhere, because he was Ryan Fucking O'Reily. Always close. Always whispering in ears, and winding long limbs around bodies, pressing against people to spread his words and wants. 

But that? That brought the motherfucker right into Miguel's lap. 

He felt it. (No, not Ryan's ass practically on his fucking dick, though he sure as shit felt that, too.) The thing he'd thought he'd never have, had never felt before landing in fucking hell. Rushing inside of him, the connection. With his boy it had been love, his heart wide open and full for the first time. He'd never loved anything, really, before his baby. Miguel hadn't really known what it felt like, before him. Part of Miguel had always felt alone, maybe, even when he'd joined right the fuck in where he was supposed to have belonged, on the streets or behind bars. 

But he fucking felt something now. 

Something else he'd never felt before. It had maybe even been there before his heart had truly opened up with the birth of his son. He just hadn't known what it was. 

Warm and good and protective. 

Different, too, though. 

Hot and desperate and wanting... 

Fuck. 

Not hollow. 

Not lost and searching for a place. 

Not alone. 

He found himself staring at Ryan's fucking mouth. With the way Ryan had rushed towards him, Miguel hadn't really seen his lips up close before he'd felt them. Yeah, they were thin like they'd felt against his. But that hadn't meant they'd felt bad, just different. Miguel reached out with his observation, knowing Ryan wouldn't stop him. His fingers stretched up along Ryan's jaw, as his thumb rubbed lightly over the faded scar under Ryan's bottom lip, the uneven arch of it along his chin. Ryan liked being touched, Miguel could tell. Could practically feel Ryan moving into his hand, comfortable sitting right on top of him. Saw his lips part just the width of a breath. 

"I'm gonna have a scar." Miguel's voice felt strange in his throat, scratchy and hard to drag out into words. It wasn't the thought of a scar, he'd known what he was doing when he'd sliced himself, and he'd meant it. It was this. Ryan O'Reily. The nearness. On his fucking lap. Under his fingers. 

And it only felt... like he wasn't empty. Like he could have someone. At his back, under his hands, against his skin. Like he could maybe belong here, somewhere, and for the first time that thought wasn't the dark curse he usually associated with Oz. 

"Yours is going to be a bit nastier there, hermano." Ryan pointed out calmly, still talking of scars. "I mean, I don't give a fuck what it looks like. But don't come whining to me when you miss your pretty unblemished face. Did it to yourself, after all." Something drained all the sting out of Ryan's harsh humor. Maybe it was the way Ryan was still staring at him. Maybe it was the hands curled firmly around Miguel's hips. Maybe it was how Ryan didn't stop the stroke of Miguel's fingers. Miguel could feel him talk, chin under the pad of his thumb, the barest bit of beginning stubble along the jaw slipping under his fingers. Ryan didn't stop him even as Miguel's thumb slid up, running over his bottom lip. Damp. Just a little. From Ryan's tongue or his, Miguel wondered. 

"Mine was done to me." Ryan added, matter of fact, after Miguel's touch slid off his lip to rest back along his scar briefly. 

"Figured." Miguel pulled his hand back finally, off of Ryan entirely. "Wasn't kidding you know. About your fucking Pops." 

"I know." The way O'Reily said it, the look in the storm of his eyes, wasn't anything like disapproval or judgment. Ryan liked that about Miguel. Miguel could tell that, too. The sudden kiss had been a huge fucking clue of Ryan's approval, of course, but it was becoming even more clear -- O'Reily wasn't shying away from what he was capable of, he was leaning in. 

"You're mine, baby." It came out like a growl, from something grasping and animal inside of Miguel. 

Shit. 

He didn't know how to do this. With someone like this. Not sweet and loyal, like Maritza. 

O'Reily might take that shit the wrong way-- 

But Ryan laughed. 

Fucking laughed, practically curling around Miguel with it. One hand wound under Miguel's arm, around and up his back to grip his shoulder. The other hand stayed on Miguel's hip, Ryan's head falling forward onto his shoulder as the man shook against him this time. Enclosed him in it. "Finally, realized that, did you? Took you fucking long enough." 

O'Reily stopped laughing, pulling back to really look. To make Miguel look. His eyes -- soft and yet so steady and serious. Hard. Gentle. Green grey and blue. Still, always, all those things. For Miguel. "And you're mine, Miguel. Fuck the devils. Fuck hell. We're here together." 

"O'Reily!" A sharp whisper came from right outside the door, holding a hint of panic almost. Who the fuck was Ryan's lookout? That didn't sound like a Hack, those assholes always sounded cocky and superior. 

Ryan was off of him in a flash, smoothly standing up. Didn't break off contact entirely though, reaching out his hand to pull up Miguel. 

Miguel didn't need it. Took it anyway with a firm clasp, relying on O'Reily just enough as he hauled himself up to feel that there was some strength in Ryan's wiry frame. 

Before they got to the door, the lawyer prag slipped in. He swung the door closed quickly, eyeing them like he was trying to buy them a few more seconds. They weren't being particularly incriminating, though. O'Reily was standing a bit fucking close, but he always did that with everyone, so no red flags there. And they weren't touching anymore or anything. 

An annoyed Rebadow, who'd probably just had the door shut in his face, quickly followed. The old timer probably just wanted to actually use the library for its intended purpose, to snag a book before nightly lockdown or something. 

Huh. Miguel guessed Ryan's lookout made sense. The Irishman didn't have a crew, and while he seemed to drift and mingle with everyone, the whipped and hooked former lawyer was probably the safest to let close to his actual business. 

Ryan used what he got, and he used it fucking well. O'Reily stayed, like he was using the library innocently too, smoothly snagging a book off a shelf before sprawling in a chair while Miguel headed out.

* * *

Miguel spotted it right away when he got back to his pod, because under a pillow was a shitty place to hide something that size and shape. 

An apple. 

Miguel didn't really care for apples, but somebody maybe noticed him not eating today. 

Could've been Carlos and his guys. 

Hell, it could've been Groves. (Although, Groves worked the hospital ward, and Miguel had maybe asked the guy to snag him a pudding cup from somebody sleeping before. So he probably wouldn't have chosen an apple.) 

Miguel knew it probably wasn't any of them. 

If anybody could work the kitchen boys to sneak shit out, or get somebody to save one off their tray, it would be O'Reily. 

He'd probably dropped it off before he'd even tracked Miguel down. 

Smooth motherfucker. 

Who noticed everything. 

Like when a day wasn't just nothing.

* * *

Miguel should be able to shower regularly again, right? Fuck it -- now or never. He didn't want to end up smelling like Adebisi, although he'd been sliding towards it before he'd wound up back in the hospital ward. He'd been able to finally clean up in the showers there without the glass fucking walls. He'd gotten a lecture about protecting his bandages afterwards, but it had been worth it. Ever since that day he'd fucking burned, he hadn't showered in Em City. O'Reily's words may be hilariously bad, but his mark wasn't as obvious at least. It was really small, and right next to an existing tattoo. With a lot of guys, Ryan could just shrug it off like it'd always been there and they hadn't noticed or remembered. The few who would? Again, it was small and simple, not the large scrolling script piece that Miguel had. That shit, Ryan could've believably had done in an hour or two with no one noticing. 

Had to get it over with. Bandages had come off, so he didn't have to be careful about soaking them anymore. Already had his lie prepared. It wasn't a _good_ lie -- picked up a new tat while he was laid up in the hospital ward. Didn't explain dick, really, except why no one in Em City had seen it happen. Definitely didn't explain why it had perfectly healed in days. But he had a pretty good _'get the fuck out of my business'_ tone, and that would make people back off as long as he also refused to let go of his shitty lie. 

Wouldn't work that great on everyone in El Norte, though, since Miguel couldn't put them off the same way. They'd probably see right through it, starting with the guys in Em City, in the showers with him this first time. Miguel saw their looks, and them he couldn't really use his best _back the fuck off_ glare on. Especially Carlos Rodrigo, who Miguel was maybe closest to. Torres may have led El Norte in Oz, but he wasn't in Em City. Carlos was sort of taking point for him with the day to day shit in the unit. Guys listened to him, including Miguel. Carlos accepted the lie at first, moving on to business, keeping any questions from leaving anyone's mouths. He subtly signaled for Miguel to stay behind with him as he sent the others off, though. 

At least they were the only ones occupying the shower room for the moment as Carlos shaved at the sinks and Miguel put his fucking shirt back on before starting to comb his hair. Just because someone other than his boys were going to see his tattoo one day, didn't mean that day needed to be today. The longer he could put it off, the more he could pretend it was a normal tattoo that had healed during the days nobody saw it. 

"Piss poor lie, Miguel." Carlos started, not quite mocking, and not seeming mad at all. His tone made Miguel feel included, not excluded. 

"Who said it's a lie?" Miguel gave it one last try, but Carlos? Miguel couldn't really argue with him, and he didn't really fucking want to. So Miguel's _fuck off_ tone was now mostly just a pissy sigh, before he gave it up entirely to resignation. "Couldn't think of a better one." 

"There isn't one." Carlos confirmed, craning his head up to shave a strip under his chin. 

"You shut 'em down. Let our boys know not to come after me about it, or run their mouths around here." Miguel let the man know he was at least smart enough to have figured that out, no matter how crap his lie was. He let his appreciation show. 

"I have one. On the outside." Still calm, quiet. Non-specific, but then Carlos didn't owe him specifics. It was enough, what he was already doing. Miguel wasn't going to be an asshole and ask if it was a chica, or if he shared part of Miguel's particular dilemma. "Can't be avoided. Ain't like we chose it, you know? We were chosen." Carlos rinsed his blade and turned his gaze to Miguel. "You're lucky, in a way. Fucking unlucky, too, man. But at least you're in here together." 

Because it was obvious, and Miguel knew that. He'd come in without a mark, and now he had one. His soulmate was in his orbit now, not from his life outside. Even the dumbfucks in here would be able to figure that out. 

But Carlos was making it clear -- he'd have Miguel's fucking back, help keep El Norte on his side. 

"Yeah, the lucky type of fucking unlucky. That's me." Miguel chuckled ruefully, but the thought that maybe he was settled inside of him. Carlos was being kept locked away from his, just like Miguel's Pops. But for Miguel? Something that was maybe more Miguel's than anything else in his life currently was, was right in here with him. 

"Torres is up for parole soon." Carlos broached. "If he gets it -- someone will have to step up and lead, Miguel." 

Miguel had sort of figured maybe Carlos would fill the role since he'd been making plans for their presence in Em City. 

"I would back you, if you're thinking you're up to it." Carlos' offer was serious, making it clear he wasn't going to angle for the position himself. 

Oh. Well, that would sure as shit help Miguel's situation -- leading, and having Carlos backing him. 

Miguel put his comb down and turned his full attention to the man, determined. "I can do it, hermano. I can step up." 

"I figured." Carlos maybe grinned a little, before returning to seriousness. "Who is it? They going to be a help, or is it some prag?" 

Miguel froze a little. He sort of owed Carlos, but he didn't -- did he even want to share the information? He probably would, with Carlos, given how the man was doing right by him. But O'Reily? Dropping his name might not be in that slick motherfucker's plans. 

Carlos just fucking chuckled and cuffed Miguel's shoulder. "Don't have to give me a name. Shit's that complicated, huh? Just wanted to know if he was weak, if he'd drag you down." 

"Nah. He seems pretty fucking dangerous. I think he can hold his own." Miguel could admit that much. Hell, it's not like that narrowed it down much in here. 

Carlos just gave a terse, but seemingly pleased nod. He really had just been watching Miguel's back. 

The whoosh of the door opening interrupted them and of fucking course -- 

\-- wasn't just God who wanted a piece of Miguel's ass, fate was riding him, too. 

Fucking O'Reily entered. 

Turned out, O'Reily's poker face was also maybe a gift from God, because he looked at Miguel the exact same way he looked at Carlos. Casual, nothing but perfunctory acknowledgement of guys in the shower room you had no particular beef with or worry about. 

Carlos stopped talking, but he would've done that with anyone having entered, to keep Miguel's business his fucking business as much as possible. 

Miguel tried to stay casual, too. Carlos hadn't pressed, and O'Reily did seem like the careful type. Miguel decided he wasn't going to reveal the man's name unless he had to, without checking in with him first. O'Reily had better not be the fucking type to be spreading Miguel's name, or showing off his mark. Didn't seem it, given the act O'Reily was putting on. 

Carlos was finishing up, and it would be rude to jet on him, so Miguel hung by the sinks with him. 

Shit, either O'Reily was a magnificent fucking actor, or a brazen motherfucker. Probably both, Miguel admitted. There he was, naked and relaxing all spread out under the spray without a moment's hesitation. 

Miguel stayed still, slid his eyes away quickly. Torn. He was fucking torn, and wasn't that another fun new pain in the ass? Part of him was definitely pissed. Look at O'Reily -- able to shower without a fucking care because of his tiny fucking mark. Getting clean whenever he wanted. 

And. 

Well. 

Yeah, Miguel was curious. 

He'd never bothered to check anybody out in the shower here before, because previously it wasn't his thing, like at all. 

But he was a curious damn cat, and now O'Reily was one of the things he wondered about. In a way that was pretty damn new for him, too. 

He'd mostly only caught sight of pale skin, long limbs, and the guy's back. Besides the briefest glimpse of the swing of his dick when he'd shed his towel and turned towards the showerheads, and that was definitely something Miguel had never noted before. Didn't see much beyond -- damn, it seemed longer than Miguel's. Shit. Now he was annoyed again. 

Mostly, he'd seen ass. (The one he'd felt the other day, heavy warm weight pressing onto his lap.) Pretty much a white boy ass, not that impressive to Miguel personally, given his own ass which he knew was nice, and Maritza's sweet tight little one. But it wasn't a sad pancake at least, had a nice bit of a curve. Hips, was Miguel remembering them right? Miguel was leaning back against the sink next to Carlos, only idly scoping outside the room and Carlos' movements now. 

Couldn't sneak another peek. Too obvious. He'd thought they'd seemed a bit wider, rounder. Not as sharp and narrow as Miguel's, for sure. Probably feel good to get a nice good grip on, like the taste he'd had the other day -- fuck. 

He was going to have to get used to this. 

His thoughts, charting new paths, for a new body. His body, maybe hungering for... yeah. 

He was going to have to suck it the fuck up and adjust. 

And keep his eyes off O'Reily in the shower in public.

* * *

When O'Reily came whispering in his ear next time, quick and quiet on the way back from a lunch Miguel actually ate, it wasn't about the food, or something on television later, or wanting to play cards. The slick motherfucker had arranged for them to slip away later and have a chat. 

Probably not about any of that innocuous shit. 

This time, Miguel stopped avoiding and listened. 

Honestly, Miguel didn't even bother marveling at the fact that O'Reily somehow knew Miguel had a session with the newly returned Sister Pete. And also knew some fucking mop closet between there and Em City Miguel was supposed to slip into when a Hack didn't bother making sure he went straight back. 

His fucking fated companion or whatever? Had all the fucking moves. And no matter what else Miguel felt, he couldn't tamp down on the little thrill, the small spike of respect and pride, that flared up when he thought about that. 

Even if it was dangerous, going into a purposefully unwatched room alone in here. Fuck, Miguel hated little rooms, and this one was pretty damn small. At least it was empty when he slipped in, letting him relax the twitch of nerves he'd been carrying all through his session. Nobody lying in wait for a fucking ambush was good. 

Still fucking small, though, Miguel thought as he slapped the old mop handle and watched it rattle in its bucket as he waited facing the door, back safely against the wall. 

O'Reily slid in, door shutting quickly behind his back, and Miguel released a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. 

Alone. 

Good. 

Miguel's maybe not always great instincts turned out to be right this time, even when they'd told him to trust Ryan O'Fucking-Reily. 

It was hard to see the tiny words right by the shamrock on Ryan's hand. But Miguel knew they were there. And he knew they were his. 

"You have fun checking out my ass in the shower?" O'Reily didn't do greetings, apparently, but he did fucking tease. Sounded casually amused, instead of offended. 

"I barely looked at you, man." Miguel scoffed, and Ryan was pretty close already, on account of the room being so small. Just one shelf stacked with nothing even worth stealing to their side, and O'Reily right in front of him, drawing his attention away from the nearness of the walls. 

"Yeah, I'm guessing that took some effort on your part." Ryan smirked, one hand going to the shelf with half a glance, picking through things a bit. Probably checking for anything worth taking, just like Miguel had while he'd been waiting. 

"You keep telling yourself that." Miguel couldn't stop the brief upward tug of his mouth, before he focused more seriously. "This what you wanted to talk about?" Miguel drew Ryan's attention with a raised eyebrow. 

He did remember, though. All of it. Ryan's mouth. And all that pale wet skin he couldn't look at. Maybe they weren't going to talk at all. 

Maybe Miguel would be okay with that. Wouldn't know for sure until he tried it, but he'd been fucking fine with the small taste he'd already had. In this case, his inquisitive fucking nature possibly working in tandem with his dick was pretty irresistible. 

"Nah." O'Reily shook his head, before pausing with it tilted to regard Miguel. "Well, not yet. We haven't really talked since, you know." O'Reily wasn't paying any attention to the shelf anymore, gesturing to Miguel's face. 

His new wound was on its way to becoming his new scar. Thin, red, straight and even, from Miguel's sure and steady hand, stretching all the way across his cheek, from the corner of his mouth to his ear. Best to air out, apparently, now that the stitches were gone and he wasn't bleeding and oozing at all, his flesh stitching together again. His hands still ached when he made a fist, or gripped things too hard, but those bandages had been removed, too, and the smaller wounds there were fully closed. 

Miguel leaned back against the wall, watching O'Reily. Might as well let him talk first. Well. Miguel couldn't hold his tongue entirely. He had to tease a bit, too. "Ain't like we don't have plenty of time to talk, man. We're stuck here." 

"Together." Ryan said it again, just like he had in Miguel's fucking lap, on Miguel's worst fucking day. His expression looked just as keen, too. "You know how fucking lucky that is? We'll make this hell our bitch." 

Miguel's short burst of laughter sounded dark. "You want a soldier." 

Miguel could do that, actually. It's what his life had always been about. Blood in. Loyalty. Do the deeds your boys needed done. Have their backs, keep your mouth shut. Maybe that's why they fit? Why they were supposed to be together? Ryan's mind seemed quicker and more cunning than his, but Miguel may be better at direct action and honoring vows. 

But Ryan was still watching him, looking unimpressed at his guess. 

"You still don't get it. Good thing we have all that fucking time for you to catch up. I don't want a fucking lackey, Miguel. I can get those easy. You? Are my other fucking half. We could be partners. I want _you_. No matter how much you fuck up your face." 

Something about the way he said it, the way Ryan clearly fucking _meant_ it, harshly serious and rattling down to Miguel's bones like everything else, made Miguel push forward again. Off the wall, and into Ryan. Captured his mouth, felt the sting of his scar, and leaned in. Ryan met him easily, like he was giving up on words, and would use his lips and tongue to rattle Miguel even more. Ryan clutched the back of Miguel's neck briefly on his way to cradling the back of Miguel's skull, bringing him closer. 

Miguel could still feel it. Hadn't fucking gone anywhere. This was _his_ , and it felt fucking good. In hell, or not, this was something worth having and holding onto. 

Did have to breathe, though. His hand had found its way to Ryan's hip. Yeah, a bit more of a curve than Miguel's, but still solid under his touch. It felt even better than he'd thought. Ryan wasn't letting him go either, and they stayed sharing the space of breath. 

Ryan's hand shifted from cupping Miguel's head into a stroke over his hair, not hard or grasping or owning at all. Just felt strangely nice, the closest thing to gentle Miguel had known in here. Ryan was staring again, always. "I never thought I'd get this shit, you know?" A hint of something in those eyes, in the voice that broke the silence. Awe. Was that what awe sounded like, buried somewhere under the seriousness of Ryan's deep voice? "I mean, I've been told a couple times I didn't even have a fucking soul, for one thing." The bitterness in Ryan's brief smirk made Miguel's fingers twitch into a stroke over Ryan's hip. Had to have a soul, didn't he? And Miguel's was its mate. Fucking crazy, but written across their skin. 

O'Reily kept talking, and Miguel kept letting him. He had another gut feeling nobody heard things like this, from this man. "Been told I have the devil inside too, by the way. So maybe you're right about that." That. Right there. Miguel's earlier words had clearly poured salt in something old and loathed. But apparently, the man had moved past Miguel's unintentional words, and turned it into something that pleased him. Because Ryan did look satisfied with their situation, and still adamant. Reaching out towards Miguel again, wanting him to believe, Miguel could feel it. "But fuck them. They were wrong. I've got you. And you've got me. So stop trying to make deals with that asshole in the sky. He doesn't listen. We'll get shit done down here without him. Together." 

He kept fucking saying that. And Miguel kept feeling it, as Ryan's hand had stopped stroking, coming to rest on the back of his neck. Like that was where it fit, just like Ryan's hip fit against the stilled curve of Miguel's palm. 

"Fuck 'em?" Miguel asked with another quirk of amusement, because it was easier than saying _together_ the way O'Reily kept saying it. Is this what he'd found? What he'd been led to, just like his family and his life had led him to Oz? This... fuck it. This little particular slice of hell, the place he could carve out in it just for himself with someone at his back -- this, he could like. 

Miguel knew now that God didn't fucking listen. No matter how much he pleaded, or how much he gave. 

But lollipops, tits, and apples. Somebody holding back fucking tears right in front of him, with him, on his worst day -- Ryan O'Reily listened. Was right there with Miguel. And all Miguel had had to say was _oh hell no_. No begging or penance required. 

"Fuck 'em all. Everyone but us." Ryan didn't waver, and he didn't laugh. 

Sure, their mouths fit together too, and they fell right the fuck back into that when Miguel's words failed him. After all, he'd gotten a speech on his back, whereas Ryan had gotten three little words. 

They had time to talk. 

Later. 

For now their hips fit together, grasping hands, and Ryan's flat chest brushing closely. 

"I want to see it." Mouth on Miguel's skin. Hot and wet, the drag of teeth across his jaw. Still careful, drifting to the side opposite his still healing wound. 

Miguel wasn't following nothing but the feeling of Ryan fucking mouthing him, rolling his hips down into Miguel's. The way this fucker moved... all boneless confidence. "What?" His voice was a broken exhale of his confusion. 

"Your mark. Mine's visible. Thanks for that, by the way. You couldn't have said something that looked better?" Teasing. The asshole was teasing him. 

It only brought out Miguel's fucking grin. Made him bite the curve of Ryan's jaw lightly to feel his shiver. Didn't stop Ryan from talking, though. "Where's yours anyway? Please tell me it's also short and fucking stupid." 

Miguel laughed for real this time, the darkness gone from it entirely. "Nah, man. You? You practically wrote a poem on my skin. Real pretty and shit." 

His hand went to the hem of his t-shirt, starting to turn before he paused. 

His blind spot. 

He'd have to turn his back to O'Reily for the man to see it up close and study it, and Miguel had a feeling Ryan was the up close inspection type. 

Ryan was looking at him like he knew. It was hard to tell how much of Ryan's irritation was an act when he let out a theatrically pissy sigh. "Seriously? I'm not going to shank you in _my words on your skin_." 

"Sure." Miguel agreed with a shrug, and his disbelief? Was perfectly clear. It was habit, though. Ingrained caution. 

Fuck, it was old fear, and Miguel knew it. He'd learned a really shitty lesson his first day past the gates of Oz -- what metal felt like ripping into him, fast and sure, and just how fucking dangerous this place was, how you might never even see it coming. So, yeah. He'd been afraid in here. Since that first day, it had been living in his veins where he had to keep it hidden and locked down tight. 

But he also knew what he really felt beneath that twitch of instinct -- O'Reily was most likely telling him the truth, which may have also been a fucking miracle. Miguel was probably actually safe around him. Miguel had already eaten a lollipop. He wasn't dead, or even feeling ill. He hadn't snorted the tits that really had turned out to be secreted in his fucking eggs, but he _had_ sold them. And the fucker he'd sold them to was fine and dandy. (He needed to kick back a nice size cut to O'Reily, actually. Only fair. And inform the man he didn't do heroin, to keep any more little vials from finding their way to him when Miguel like had a particularly bad day or something.) 

He could still taste Ryan on his tongue. Almost feel the heated meeting of their mouths still humming under his skin. That day in the library he hadn't been thinking right. He'd been sort of out of it from not eating, and the consuming grief -- he'd let O'Reily close without a care for anything but that closeness, for anything but feeling something other than pain.

He still felt the same now, though. Like it would be okay, like he could turn his blind spot to this man. And he wasn't drifting from hunger now. He'd probably always be grieving, but he wasn't fucked up by the freshness of it like that day. 

But by now he'd hesitated just long enough to earn a response. 

"Jesus." Ryan rolled his eyes briefly, before straightening up and narrowing his gaze at Miguel again, like he was figuring out something. "You're going to be fun, aren't you?" It was almost mocking, because yeah, Ryan seemed to find Miguel's reluctance a bit of a hassle. But. There was something else there, in the way Ryan was regarding him. He was almost smiling, not quite on his face, but like Miguel could feel it hiding there. 

O'Reily was smart -- smart enough to know hesitating was generally the safe thing to do. Maybe Ryan respected that. Maybe that's what Miguel had picked up on. 

Yeah, figuring out this motherfucker was going to be fun, too. And like Ryan maybe was, Miguel was only a little bit bitter about that. He didn't want to be tied to a fucking idiot, after all. O'Reily... he was interesting. Sparked Miguel's curiosity like a wildfire, kept him engaged. (And kissing him... yeah, Miguel didn't think kissing a guy would fucking feel like that.) 

Just when Miguel was about to give in, he'd decided to before Ryan had even spoken after all, O'Reily surprised him by doing it first. 

"Fine, frisk me. Can't shank you without a shank, and I'm not dumb enough to take you on unarmed. I've seen you hit the bag in the gym, and you walked off a fucking shank to the chest." 

Yeah, that thing Miguel had spotted? Might really be respect, or something like it. 

Ryan actually held out his arms in a big show, even though he still looked irritated. 

Couldn't hurt. 

Might be fun. 

Guy was just wearing a thin t-shirt, no pockets or nothing, so Miguel just ran his hands down Ryan's sides, slipping around back and front when he reached the man's waistband. Guy was firm, even though he wasn't hard solid muscle. Sinew and lanky male strength, gliding under Miguel's palms. Miguel dropped to a knee, starting opposite of where he normally would have to check the man's boots first. Miguel shifted to run his hands in an easy smooth slide over legs that seemed really fucking long when he was this close and kneeling. Both hands on either side of one leg, down one then up the other. 

"Did I say frisk me or grope me? I mean, not that I'm complaining." 

The laughing asshole tone floated right down to Miguel, as he reached the end of Ryan's inner thigh. Yeah, O'Reily was going to be fun, in more ways than one, maybe. Miguel _was_ being overly thorough with his frisking, purposefully taking advantage of the opportunity to see what touching the man felt like, and that hadn't escaped Ryan's notice apparently. And Miguel was pretty close to groping territory. Felt that too, right at the edge of his thumb, hands curled around one thigh now, fingers lightly on the back of it, almost brushing Ryan's ass. 

"No worries, baby. I'm done." Miguel was teasing a bit with the sudden withdrawal of his hands, because he could also tell -- Ryan wasn't just 'not complaining'. He'd maybe enjoyed it. 

"You sure? Maybe you should check again." Ryan's wink down at him confirmed that pretty fucking quickly. "Could've missed it." 

Yeah, fucking fun. Miguel hadn't missed anything, though. Ryan wasn't carrying anything but a little baggie Miguel had felt tucked behind the tongue of his boot but left there. 

He had enjoyed it, though -- the feel of Ryan under his hands. Felt just like getting his hands on someone he wanted to touch always had, just decidedly lacking in the usual tits and softer curves. That maybe wasn't turning out to be a bad difference though, like fucking at all. 

Miguel kept his expression hard, but his own amusement maybe leaked out through his gruff tone. "Shut up." 

Miguel punctuated it as he quickly stood, hand darting around Ryan's back to plant a light smack on his ass. (Really wasn't a bad ass, either, now that he knew it up close and personal.) Ryan merely moved with it. 

Miguel played with fire sometimes. He knew this about himself. 

Ryan's eyebrow was raised when they were face to face again, but he was holding in another laugh. "Satisfied, smacky?" 

Miguel rolled his eyes right back, but he did turn around without protest, lifting his shirt up to expose the shit that had started this. (It wasn't the start, not really, and even he knew that. It was a sign. A receipt. A mark in his flesh so he couldn't ignore the truth, like those fat short pale shank scars near his heart, reminding him of what awaited him in here.) Fuck it -- Miguel pulled his shirt off entirely so Ryan could see the whole thing easily, temporarily shoving it in his front pocket to hang down. 

He couldn't see Ryan really, beyond the hint of movement behind him, out of the corner of his eye. He could feel him though, since he stepped right up into Miguel's space. 

Light touch of fingers, the rough drag of maybe some callouses, tracing over his lower back. 

Miguel shivered at it. He also bitched. Only one of the reactions was real. "Stop fucking tickling, pendejo." 

"Mmmh." Fuck, Ryan's low thoughtful noise was right behind his ear, breathing down his neck. That wasn't fear tracing its way up the nerves of Miguel's spine -- it was anticipation of a hotter, needier kind. Fuck, he was screwed. "That shiver wasn't you being ticklish, _hermano_." 

Ryan's voice still held his laughter tucked away behind his tongue, but it was too low and rough to let it go free. 

Miguel turned partially, torso twisting with his head to see behind him when he heard the light thud on concrete. 

Just saw it. 

It had been Ryan's knees hitting the floor. The man was right behind him still. Just, you know, lower. Not quite staring at Miguel's ass, because he was tall and his eyes were on Miguel's tattoo. "What are you doing?" Miguel's confusion showed again. 

"Not tickling." O'Reily said mysteriously, steady and focused. Miguel saw Ryan's head dip towards his skin before he turned back around from the strain, facing a wall and not the man behind him. 

Heat. Wet. 

Ryan O'Reily's fucking tongue, tracing across his skin. 

Nope, that didn't tickle at all. Fuck. The shiver sped under his skin, spreading heat. It wasn't like, soulmate magic or anything -- just the feeling of someone licking him. On their knees. Hands wrapping around the front of each of his thighs. Fuck, O'Reily had zero fucking boundaries. 

Miguel found that pretty fucking beautiful at the moment. 

Ryan's mouth. His tongue and teeth tracing patterns on his back. Whirls and loops of the heat still spreading through him. Miguel braced flat palms on the cold stone in front of him to stay steady. 

"What does it say?" Miguel's voice sounded rough even to him. 

O'Reily's mouth left him to speak, and his breath chilled Miguel's damp skin. "You don't know what it says?" 

"Don't have eyes in the back of my head, Ryan." Miguel used his first name without thought. "Useful as that would fucking be in here. Mirror was all backwards and I didn't want to try. To like, know. I want to know now." 

"But I heard you. Didn't you hear--" Ryan sounded all contemplative and shit, maybe. Or maybe it was the return of his fingers that felt that way, looping dragging touch over damp drying skin. 

"Only heard part of whatever the fuck your high ass was saying -- hollow of God's hand and all. Think I saw more words than that. Don't know why I got the whole thing." Miguel shrugged, and held himself firm. He had a feeling that if he shivered again, he'd never hear the end of it. 

"May the road rise up to meet you." The words on his back were spoken against it. "May the wind be always at your back. May the sun shine warm upon your face." Slowly, and almost lilting, broken by the drag of teeth. Miguel gave over to a shudder that time, causing more laughter to join the words as the warmth slipped over his skin again, settling even deeper within him, reaching everything Ryan wasn't even touching. "And rain fall soft upon your fields. And until we meet again, may God hold you in the hollow of his hand." 

Yeah, sort of beautiful, like the feeling of Ryan's mouth, the fingers digging into his thighs. Holding him. 

"It's a blessing." Ryan explained, mouth finally leaving Miguel's skin completely. 

Miguel scoffed at the thought, trying to pull himself together before Ryan got too cocky from Miguel being left just breathing heavy instead of speaking right away. "Yeah, I feel real fucking blessed in here. Don't you?" 

"Nah, I meant what I was saying." Couldn't see him, but somehow it managed to sound like a shrug anyway. "It's like an Irish blessing or something. It's a thing you say for like traveling and shit mainly, but -- it's a good thing, Miguel." His first name, falling from Ryan's lips again so easily. Did that a lot, Miguel was starting to notice. And it always sounded like it meant something. "A lot fucking nicer than 'oh hell no'." 

Now that sarcastic comment sounded amusingly bitter. 

"Yeah, well, that was from my heart." Miguel laughed, taunting a little. But he wasn't being a dick, and he was starting to realize how much he'd prefer Ryan back under his palms instead of cold stone. 

"That wasn't your heart. That was your head." Ryan kept explaining shit to him, all serious. Like he knew better. Though, maybe sometimes he did. He seemed certain about this, anyway. "And your fucked up head decided to slice your own face, so I'd maybe start listening to your heart a little more." 

His heart, which was sped up like his breath most likely, pumping blood through his veins faster. Making him hard. Making him want more. 

"You going to stay down there, baby?" The suggestive question came out without thought, suddenly breathless, just his blood and his balls wanting Ryan's mouth back. More. 

"Guess you aren't shy there, huh, Miguel?" O'Reily observed calmly, hard to read again. Especially since Miguel couldn't see him. "You're one bold motherfucker." 

Shit, he didn't really sound it, but maybe O'Reily was pissed? Maybe Ryan was never going to -- was Miguel going to do that? Did he want to? At the moment, he just knew he wanted more. 

He tried to explain himself, or walk it back, or -- damn him for having a smart motherfucker like Ryan O'Reily as his other half. No way was he going to buy anything other than the truth -- Miguel had been thinking about his dick, and Ryan on his knees. "Well, you did tell me to listen to my heart..." He tried to play it off anyway, with all his playfulness and charm, making his words sound like a smirk. 

Ryan's quiet chuckle sounded genuine still. Didn't sound pissed. "Yeah, I think maybe you aimed too low and got your dick this time." 

Miguel laughed again too, choppy and breathless, but so fucking real. He was pretty sure he'd never laughed this much in here. Weren't supposed to. Wasn't supposed to be enough joy for it. 

His hands. Ryan's hands were still on him, running almost thoughtlessly up and down Miguel's thighs, nice and slow. 

Plus, he was still fucking down there. 

Nope, couldn't be that pissed or put off by the idea, then. Still. For today? Maybe they should keep it simple. 

Thankfully, it looked like he was faster than O'Reily. Miguel turned around, but leaned down to wrap a hand firmly around the man's bicep and help pull him up before Ryan even had time to think Miguel was like, shoving his dick in the guy's face or anything. 

He still wanted more, though, even as Ryan slid up to standing again easily. So that much, he took -- Ryan's mouth, pulling his body tight against Miguel's again. 

"This works too for today, yeah?" Miguel panted against lips that stayed parted and brushing right against his. 

Also brushing against him? What pretty much felt like a half-hard dick, not that Miguel knew from experiencing it this particular way. 

"Works for me." Yeah, Ryan sounded like he meant that, tilting that firm insistent nudging right into Miguel. Jesus, that felt -- that definitely didn't feel bad, rubbing right against his dick. Made him want to press closer. 

So he did, and got another little twitch of Ryan's hips as a reward. 

"We'll figure it out, right?" Miguel did his best not to gasp out the words, the contact stealing his breath more as that ache started to settle nice and low inside of him. 

"I've got no doubt, devil o' mine. Like you said -- we've got nothing but time." Confident, like he always seemed to be. The man had good reason, though. He got shit done. Ryan was all cocky words and cocked hips, lips still dragging damply against Miguel's as -- yeah, that was definitely Ryan's cock rubbing right near Miguel's hip, pressure tantalizingly close when it wasn't brushing Miguel's own growing hardness. 

"Together." It came right out of Miguel's mouth this time, for the first time. An echo of Ryan's repeated words that he felt down to his bones again. Not just with his dick, either. 

The brief smile Miguel saw before it swallowed his own looked real. Bright in the dim room, and filling up those shitty little walls. 

With them, the two of them. 

He was pulled right into the heat of Ryan's mouth, and _fuck this motherfucker sucking on his tongue_ like he was tempting another shudder out of Miguel, and snaking his hand... 

Down. 

Miguel could hear the zipper, feel the tug of it so close to where he needed touch. Could hear his own breath, coming out heavy, right underneath Ryan's. 

Couldn't hold in the groan at Ryan's warm firm hand tugging him out of his pants. Wrapping around him bare, he felt the hardening rush of a touch that wasn't his own for once. Felt the drag of Ryan's calloused fingers, his sure palm, slipping right over his dick, igniting that burn in his blood in the best way. Bastard was laughing again, felt more than heard right against Miguel's uninjured cheek. 

Miguel should probably stop acting stunned, and start stealing more of the Irishman's breath, too. Fucking around with a guy might be new, but he wasn't a slouch -- Miguel could make that laughter cut right out and he knew it. 

Miguel's hand didn't shake, Ryan's zipper catching under his skin now as he freed the man. Miguel was steady and quick, mind thoughtlessly led by the feeling of Ryan's stroke, the drag of his mouth over Miguel's skin again. No space between them, no breath in his lungs for hesitation. Took Ryan in his hand, fucking feeling him stiffen further with the first stroke as Miguel pulled him out. 

" _Fuck._ " Nope, Ryan wasn't laughing now. Breathless now too, head dipping into the crook of Miguel's neck. Splash of heat from the lap of Ryan's tongue on his throat joined the steady tug on his dick, the shiver spreading through him, heat pooling in his balls. 

_Fuck_ was right. Hadn't thought he'd have this again, breath and body curled around him, hungry and close. Felt strange in his hand for a moment, before got lost in the sensation, all of it sweeping over and through him. Here with him. Fingers digging into his hip, hand sliding over his dick. Miguel caught quick moving glimpses of it -- the shamrock and his words on Ryan's hand, wrapped right around his flesh. Wasn't funny now. The words themselves didn't matter, just the sight of his mark feeding the heat curling through him. They'd moved just far enough apart to make room for their strokes. Ryan's were slower, dragging the sensation out so fucking sweet, drawing Miguel closer. Miguel's got a bit rougher, speeding up first because he liked the little hint of a whimper dropped by Ryan's open mouth right underneath his ear. 

Hands bumped, and Miguel wasn't the only one wracked by a shiver as his dick brushed against Ryan's for a stroke as they moved. Didn't have time to lick or spit, or explore that move further. Couldn't break the rhythm pulling them both along. But the reaction Miguel got when he rubbed roughly over the head of Ryan's dick for the slick of pre-cum was amusing, almost, until it wasn't when Ryan did the same thing to him. Miguel wasn't even sure whose groan it was vibrating the sloppy kiss that followed, Ryan's hand slipping faster over him. 

He was held right against that lean strength, Ryan trembling into Miguel's own shake, both of them holding each other up maybe, holding together through it. It was too much of something he hadn't had in awhile. Maybe thought he'd never have again, not like this, feeling less alone than ever with the thrust of him into Ryan's grip matching Ryan moving with his touch. 

Didn't take long before the ache built and spilled, fire rushing through him again in a much fucking sweeter way. Heat splashing against his skin. 

Shuddering relief, shared. 

Took him a moment, drained and loose with his forehead resting on Ryan's shoulder. Felt Ryan's hands, one stroking down the side of his throat, across his collarbone, slow and mindless, as the other let his spent dick fall. 

After that moment, though, he noticed the chilling dampness on his lower abdomen. He pulled back enough to look down at-- 

"--motherfuck. Seriously!?" His voice was still a bit missing in action, gravelly as he caught his breath back. 

"What?" Ryan pulled back a bit too, acting clueless. Miguel's brief amusement at the guy's little shiver as he tucked himself back in his pants, trying to wipe his hand over his sensitive soft dick to clean it up a bit beforehand, was short-lived. 

Because this motherfucker sure as hell knew _'what'_. 

Miguel leaned his face right back into Ryan's to better convey his low hiss. "You know damn well, pendejo -- why am I the only fucking one covered in come?" 

Thankfully, it was pretty much all on his bare skin, where it was unfortunately starting to dry and tighten stickily. Any drop or two high up on his pants would be covered by his shirt once he got it back on. The shirt still hanging out of his pocket looked unscathed too, thank fucking Christ. 

O'Reily, the fucking asshole, just shrugged, with that small grin twitching one corner of his mouth before it disappeared. "Hey, you were the one half naked. Seemed better than coming on the fucking shirt I have to walk out of here wearing." 

"You were actually thinking? During that?" Fuck, Miguel was a little offended, because honestly, he hadn't been. Now, of course, he remembered the directing nudge of Ryan's hand, skin brushing against his amidst the sweat and slick friction. Guiding their fucking climaxes right onto Miguel's fucking stomach, apparently. 

Ryan didn't look like an asshole for a second, though. He looked a little distracted, too, expression far more open and relaxed than usual. (Reminded Miguel of those rare hints from him of something almost approaching _soft_.) Ryan's eyes drifted to Miguel's abdomen before returning to his face, Ryan's tongue darting out distractedly to his lips. 

"Barely." Ryan admitted, sounding a bit dazed, like Miguel felt. 

Ryan O'Reily, his soulmate, making him think of the warm buzzing burn of booze in his blood again. The good kind of burn, always. Sort of looked like Ryan felt the same way at the moment. 

But he was clearly still fucking thinking, maybe that brain of his never stopped, gaze focusing again after a blink. "We can fix it. No problem. You got one of those bandanas of yours on you?" 

Well, yeah. "How'd you know--" 

"I pay attention." Ryan answered before he even finished asking. "You know that. And I definitely paid special fucking attention to you after you put your cute little swear on my skin." 

"I ain't cute." Miguel objected. Well, he definitely was, but not like that. 

"Okay, hot." Ryan shrugged it off with the loose roll of one shoulder again. "You happy? You were pretty fucking hot just now." Apparently O'Reily could be both a bit of a sarcastic dick, and mean it at the same time. Great at fucking multitasking, this one. 

Speaking of fucking heat -- Ryan eyed Miguel's stomach again before reaching out, dragging his thumb over Miguel's still sensitive skin, right through their mess. No fucking hope of hiding his tremor that time. 

"Bandana." Ryan prompted, holding out his now probably sticky hand. He didn't lick it or anything, but that gesture alone, the intimate curiosity, had been more than fucking enough for Miguel at the moment. 

Miguel took the bandana he was probably going to have to throw out later from his back pocket with an unfurling shake and handed it over. Ryan quickly wiped his hand, before reaching out to clean up Miguel rather than passing it back. There was maybe a different kind of warmth from that, but at least it didn't make Miguel shiver. He just watched. His words again, right above Ryan's shamrock, swiping over his stomach. 

Miguel was starting to notice other things now that his brain was checking back in, like the mild ache in his hand. It'd go away, and the scar on his palm still looked perfectly fine. Just yeah, there was maybe a reason he hadn't jacked off yet, with the firm grip and swift movement required making his occasional soreness twinge enough to detract from the pleasure. Hadn't even fucking felt it this time, with Ryan's hand wrapped around his dick, and the man moving under his touch, though. And he wasn't going to bitch about it now, just stayed watching Ryan clean up with his bandana. 

"What if I hadn't had it on me?" Miguel asked idly, but he had an inkling he knew. O'Reily? Crafty enough to probably come up with another plan. 

The small upward quirk of Ryan's mouth, confidence showing again, confirmed Miguel's suspicions. "Would've come up with something. Always got to have backup, Miguel." 

Yeah. 

And now maybe he did. A different kind than he'd ever had. Deeper than skin, than neighborhood, maybe even than blood. 

His. 

Theirs. 

"Starting to get that." Miguel took the now fucking ruined bandana back from Ryan, and _fucking hell_ \-- another shiver, at the unexpected touch of Ryan's hand on his overly sensitized dick. 

O'Reily's low chuckle made another brief reappearance as he carefully tucked Miguel away. "Figured you were clever." 

Miguel's own cockiness peeked out, because yeah, Ryan was observant, but that's not all his staring was. Not with Miguel. Miguel fucking knew when people were looking at him appreciatively, and Ryan definitely did. "Don't forget hot, baby." 

"That too, _maybe_." Ryan's mild taunt was chased by another grin, right back to Miguel's mouth. 

Yeah, maybe that, too. 

All his. 

Against his lips, under his hands, with him in the empty dark and the shitty fluorescent light, and written across his back. 

Fuck whether they belonged in this hellhole or not -- maybe it didn't matter as much when they belonged together. 

~~~~~  
The End

**Author's Note:**

>  **End Notes:** I swapped the Latinos who failed to kill Keane with bikers, because I'm assuming an O'Reily who just found out he had a Latino soulmate would've made sure there wasn't a possibility said soulmate was going to be in that gym, or involved in all that trouble unnecessarily, and would've arranged for a different group to do his dirty work.
> 
>  **Author's Notes:** Many thanks to [jackiesjunkie](/users/jackiesjunkie/) for being a supportive enabler, sounding board, and putting up with my many panicked questions. 
> 
> My thanks to [KH_FF13](/users/KH_FF13/) for the truly inspiring prompt. I really enjoyed the idea it brought me, and it's not anything I would have thought of on my own. I was previously unfamiliar with Soulmate AU's. So, I'm a tad concerned this turned out like a Werewolf AU written by someone who had never heard of a werewolf before, and thus they ended up writing a story about a man who turns into a golden retriever when he's happy. I might have accidentally written insta-love with magic tattoos.
> 
>  **I've rambled quite enough, but I have a question:** Would anyone theoretically be interested in a PWP ficlet or two set in the near future of this universe? There might be the beginnings of a couple of things in my notes app, but I'm unsure if I should bother pursuing properly writing them, or just leave them unfinished in a drawer. They're lighter and fluffier fare than this, though.


End file.
